The Gardener

A moment of time elapses, I breathe the air into my lungs. Its taste is sour and reeks the of the perfume of the streets. Everything is grabbing me, pulling me to the ground. My lungs are poisoned and men with stones throw them at my arms and legs. I fall under the world.
I am the dirt, and they step on me.

Arms wrap around me, a finger strokes my cheek. The touch sends sparks of numbness through my skin. I reach for more, bringing his lips to mine. A mother's milk is replaced with a new life-giving formula. The more connected, the more I grow, but it is past my time to be weened, to be let go.
I am the weed, and I am the addict.

Words swarm my mind, they combine their syllables to form a dictionary on my tongue. A friendship is lost behind my closed lips. Frustration resonates in the right left side of my chest, and still the expectant silence will not be filled. Images appear in my mind; what if I said that? What would he do? I remain quiet, stubbornly resisting.
I am the thorn, and nothing is resolved.

My seeds will not grow in the land I have made for myself. Fragile and timid I collapse. Bruised and emotionally dry, I wither. I can not tend my own life, the soil is contaminated with fear and out from it grow my flaws. They overwhelm me. But a gentle eye watches over my growth.

He whispers my name for my comfort. He waits patiently in the morning dew. Not forcing, only probing, he coaxes me too him. I can not resist the warmth of his call. I lean toward him, but my roots hold be secure. They have been seeped too long in their dark, earthy, home. I pull, and he steps closer, closing the distance between us. Carrying a spade, and tools that I had lacked, I wilt into his hands.

He is the Gardener, and He, not I, will make me the flower.